The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  Belwynn still ran. To her left, she saw that Gyrmund and Moneva came too.

  Gyrmund stopped, fitting another arrow to his bow. He fired true, a second missile slamming into Siavash. The creature took a couple of steps backwards from the impact, but otherwise the weapon didn’t harm it. If neither Soren or Gyrmund could kill the thing, what could do they do?

  You must destroy it, Madria told Belwynn.

  But how?

  Belwynn and Moneva arrived together, Siavash studying them, a grin on his face.

  He made a feint towards them before moving at astonishing speed towards Soren, whipping his spear in a long arc. It connected with Onella’s Staff, knocking it from Soren’s hands and sending it spinning away.

  Belwynn knew what that meant for Soren—the loss of sight and movement. Did Siavash know, she wondered.

  He cackled. ‘I knew we would meet again, Soren,’ said Siavash, though he sounded like Dorian. ‘We have unfinished business, you and I. So killing you would be a disappointment. Pentas, on the other hand,’ he continued, gesturing at the prone wizard, ‘took much longer to destroy than I would have liked.’

  Moneva came for him then, swinging with her short swords, but she was unable to get close. Siavash sent a straight jab with the spear at her chest, before swinging low and taking away her legs. He looked at Belwynn, then, but dismissed her as a threat, before turning back to Moneva with a smile.

  ‘Another chance for revenge,’ he cooed at Moneva, ‘on the one who dared to kill Erkindrix. Diis will be pleased with today’s work.’

  ‘Moneva!’ Belwynn shouted at her. ‘Give me the dagger!’

  Lightning fast, without hesitation, Moneva grabbed Toric’s Dagger from her belt and threw it to Belwynn.

  Without time to doubt herself, Belwynn caught the weapon, grabbing the hilt in her right hand, and advanced on Siavash.

  ‘Now Belwynn!’ shouted Pentas.

  He had risen to a sitting position and now tugged at Siavash’s spear with his magic. Siavash pulled back, loathe to lose his weapon.

  Belwynn launched herself at him, raising her right hand high and bringing the blade down on top of his skull.

  ‘Die!’ she screamed, and as the words left her lips she felt a channelling sensation. The forces that had entered her upon Elana’s death now awoke, streaming from her body, down the length of the weapon, and into the head. Her arm jolted, and a bang, like an explosion, could be heard.

  Then Dorian’s body suddenly went limp. It fell to the ground, and Toric’s Dagger came free as it did.

  Siavash was gone.

  Theron and his Knights arrived soon afterwards. They stopped short of engaging with the enemy. Those who had attacked with Siavash remained on the battlefield, apparently leaderless. Some had witnessed Dorian’s death; some had seen enough to question whether it had been Dorian at all—but many still saw Theron as the enemy, and the situation remained delicate. Over on the right flank, the second unit still kept its distance.

  Belwynn, Soren, Gyrmund and Moneva gathered around Pentas. He was deathly pale but still conscious.

  ‘A shadow,’ he said, trying to explain what Siavash had done. ‘Diis must have separated Siavash’s shadow from his body, allowing him to occupy the bodies of those he killed. That’s how he did this.’

  ‘And he’s now dead?’ Moneva asked.

  ‘The shadow is destroyed. Siavash is unharmed. He and Diis must still be defeated.’

  He coughed, desperately trying to find his breath. Soren gripped his hand. After a while Pentas managed to calm his breathing enough to talk again.

  ‘I am sorry about Elana. Mostly, of course, because if she were here I might be saved.’ He smiled wanly at this, though Belwynn struggled to see the humour in it. ‘Siavash succeeded in killing Madria’s two servants. He thought he had won.’ He turned to look at Belwynn, grimacing in pain. ‘Now he knows otherwise. He must know that you are Madria’s new champion, Belwynn.’

  The others looked at her after that statement, questions in their eyes.

  ‘He will come to kill you,’ Pentas continued. ‘But you can kill him. You can kill Diis,’ he wheezed, struggling to speak. ‘As ever, it’s the weapons. You must find the remaining weapons before it’s too late.’

  Belwynn nodded. ‘We will,’ she said. A promise to a dying man she had no idea how to make happen.

  Nonetheless, Pentas seemed satisfied that she understood.

  Events on the battlefield grabbed their attention. The second unit of enemy infantry, seemingly reluctant to move up to now, had begun to march towards them. Above the front line they held a white flag.

  ‘Go,’ said Soren to the others, still gripping Pentas’s hand. ‘I will stay with him.’

  Theron was dismounting, as Belwynn, Gyrmund and Moneva made their way over to join him. The four of them walked the short distance to a location between the two armies. The second unit halted, and two men left the front rank, one of them the flag bearer.

  ‘Diodorus,’ Theron said in disgust, recognising the count who walked besides the flag. ‘The traitor has come to wriggle out of this mess.’

  Diodorus signalled to the soldiers who had fought with Siavash, until two men detached themselves from their ranks and came to join the parley.

  The two groups of four eyed each other warily, one of the soldiers staring fearfully at the Jalakh Bow that Gyrmund carried.

  ‘Dorian is dead?’ Diodorus asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Belwynn said. ‘Though it wasn’t Dorian.’

  Diodorus nodded in his sad way. ‘I realised that much,’ he said.

  ‘I recognise you,’ Theron said to one of the other soldiers. ‘You are Proteus, a Knight of Kalinth. You fought for Galenos?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said defiantly.

  ‘Does he live?’

  ‘He died, engulfed in the flames sent by your warlocks,’ Proteus replied bitterly.

  Theron nodded, unmoved by the man’s hostility. ‘Well?’ he said, turning to Diodorus.

  ‘I am here to submit to you as victor. We will lay down our arms if you spare the men’s lives.’

  ‘We will do no such thing!’ objected Proteus. ‘We have the numbers still!’

  Diodorus swivelled his large head to look at the knight. ‘If you try to fight on I will order my men into battle against you. It’s over.’

  ‘Treacherous swine!’ Proteus declared.

  ‘Just state your decision, Proteus,’ Theron interjected, face implacable.

  Proteus looked from one to the other before giving up. ‘I have no choice, do I? I will order a surrender.’

  Theron nodded. ‘I accept. Though don’t think you can escape this with your life, Diodorus,’ he warned the count. ‘The punishment for treachery must always be death.’

  Diodorus nodded. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘Though I would ask a favour. Dorian—or whoever he was-’

  ‘Siavash of Ishari,’ said Moneva.

  Diodorus raised an eyebrow at that, and Proteus frowned, unable to comprehend the statement.

  ‘He took my two sons from me. Kept them as hostages to ensure I fought with them. They are back at the camp. He told Straton to—to kill them should I waver.’

  His eyes went down to the ground, wrestling with his emotions, before he looked up again. ‘I would appreciate your help in finding them. I would like to know whether they live or not. They are young boys, innocent in all this.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Theron. ‘I will accompany you.’

  They walked back to their soldiers.

  It is over, Belwynn said to the Madrians. Rest now.

  They returned to Soren.

  ‘He is gone,’ he said to them as they approached.

  Pentas’s eyes were closed now. Without those red eyes he looked like a normal, unremarkable man. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  ‘Where would we be now without him?’ Belwynn asked out loud.

  ‘Do you remember when we first met him, wai
ting for us on the road to Coldeberg?’ Gyrmund asked. ‘That was the first time he saved our lives.’

  ‘He got us out of Samir Durg,’ Moneva said quietly.

  ‘He had been holding back the Isharites for a long time before that,’ added Soren. ‘I don’t know how we will manage without him.’

  No-one had an answer to that. Pentas had said that she must do it, but why had the burden suddenly fallen on her?

  ‘I’m going with Theron,’ she said, keen to escape the question.

  Belwynn and Theron rode with Count Diodorus to the enemy camp. Wagons full of supplies, soldiers’ tents, and the other accoutrements of war lay all around, though few soldiers remained.

  ‘Where did the Drobax go?’ Belwynn asked.

  ‘Back where they came from,’ Diodorus replied.

  Belwynn remembered Siavash boasting that he had conquered the Krykker lands. She spared a thought for Rabigar, hoping he had somehow survived.

  ‘It was hastily done,’ Diodorus added. ‘The Drobax had marched all the way here. They were tired, leaderless. But there are many of them. I fear they will be back.’

  Theron shrugged. ‘If the Krykkers truly are defeated, the Drobax will not only be sent here, but all over Dalriya. Nowhere is safe. That’s why we must stand against the Isharites.’

  Belwynn put a hand on his arm. He sounded tired; empty. He had been arguing for the Kalinthians to stand up to Ishari for years. And he had ended up fighting his own people instead. She understood his despondency.

  ‘There,’ said Diodorus, pointing at a covered wagon. ‘My boys were kept inside.’

  They trotted their mounts over, dismounting just before it. Belwynn felt an unpleasant ache in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to find two dead boys here.

  They walked to the back of the wagon. A man leaned against it. It was Prince Straton.

  ‘When the Drobax ran past,’ said the prince, with no preamble, ‘I thought then we might lose after all.’ He shook his head wryly. ‘Seems like I’ll always lose to you, Theron.’

  The prince looked at Diodorus’s expression.

  ‘Oh! Your sons!’ he said. ‘You know I would never have done anything to them, don’t you?’

  Straton turned around, pulling aside the canvas. ‘Come out, boys!’ he said. ‘Your father’s come for you, just like I said.’

  Two boys, neither as old as ten, came to the back of the wagon. Diodorus walked over, lifted them both out, one in each arm, and deposited them onto the ground. He knelt there, hugging them and saying nothing. Belwynn, Theron and Straton walked away a few paces, giving them some room.

  Straton looked over at the family.

  ‘I’m not a monster, you know,’ he said defensively.

  ‘You’ve been serving one,’ said Theron accusingly.

  ‘Dorian?’

  ‘You know it wasn’t Dorian,’ said Belwynn, her anger at the prince bursting out.

  Straton nodded. ‘He said he’d make me king,’ he said simply, as if that explained it all.

  Theron shook his head.

  ‘It would have been better. Now the Isharites will come and destroy Kalinth,’ he said to Theron.

  Theron looked at him, teeth gritted.

  ‘There’s no longer any need for you to worry about that,’ Theron declared, before launching himself at Straton. He knocked the prince to the ground, diving on to him and drawing a knife from his belt.

  ‘Theron!’ Belwynn shouted.

  But he didn’t stop, pushing the knife into Straton’s neck, holding it there until the prince stopped struggling.

  Belwynn didn’t try to stop him.

  Theron rose to his feet. Straton’s blood covered his face, neck and chest. Turning to Diodorus, his fingers gripped the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Theron,’ said Belwynn, ‘don’t you think we’ve shed too much blood now?’

  He turned to face her. ‘Too much? Maybe my mistake has been in not shedding enough.’

  ‘What, then? You’ll kill him in front of his children? He could still be an ally.’

  Theron drew his sword and approached. Diodorus looked up at him, saw Straton’s body sprawled on the ground, then gently moved his children to one side.

  ‘You are pardoned, Diodorus, if you swear to serve me faithfully from now on. Not to serve the kingdom, or some other oath you can wriggle out of. Me.’

  Diodorus got to his knees. ‘I swear it, on the lives of my boys. I am yours to command.’

  Clouds scudded across the sky and a breeze kept them cool, as soldiers, servants and other hangers-on took the Great Road north.

  Farred didn’t fully understand how his decisions were leading him to return to Burkhard Castle. He had certainly never wanted to go back there, let alone go through the misery of another siege. Edgar had offered him a wife and lands just three weeks past. He had turned the offer down. Some men might call themselves stupid for doing so. But Farred was beginning to believe that it was fate that was bringing them all back to Burkhard. And fate cannot be denied.

  If his thoughts on their destination were bleak, Farred was at least relieved at the manner of their departure. Archmage Gustav had spoken privately with Inge, and Duke Walter had done the same with Baldwin. Whatever had been said worked, for the Emperor wasted no time in sending out his orders and preparing to lead his army to the fortress in person. Baldwin had given all the signs of being back to his old self, and that was surely what the Brasingians needed.

  It had been an affecting scene when he departed, Queen Hannelore visibly upset as she bid her husband goodbye. The two daughters wept for their father too, though the young boy didn’t seem to understand. There was only a small chance that they would see him again.

  Farred saw a figure on the road up ahead and called out a warning. The horses were stopped and men checked their weapons, just in case.

  ‘It’s Gustav,’ said Inge, her eyes the sharpest, or else she knew by some other means.

  Baldwin and Walter nudged their horses forwards. Farred, intrigued, joined them.

  Gustav stood on the road, no mount in sight. Farred knew full well how he had got there, though that was never explicitly discussed in front of the emperor. He still had that healthy appearance about him that Farred didn’t associate with his kind, but he was tired looking. There was something else too, a troubled look in his face.

  ‘You have news?’ Baldwin asked his wizard.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. The Isharite army approaches the border of the Empire. The Rotelegen are making good progress with the evacuation, and Duke Jeremias should arrive at Burkhard not long after you do.’

  ‘I sense there is something else, too,’ said Walter.

  ‘Indeed, you are perceptive as ever, Your Grace.’ Gustav seemed to consider his words for a moment. ‘There is no other way to say it,’ he decided. ‘The Isharite army has a dragon with it.’

  About

  So, you made it to the end! Well done! What did you think? I’d love it if you could spare a few seconds to write a quick review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

  Four weapons claimed, three still to go.

  The Weapon Takers will return one last time in Book Four, The Giants’ Spear.

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  Many thanks to everyone who has supported me, including Marcus Nilsson & Phyllis Simpson for beta reading.

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  Website: jamieedmundson.com

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  Turn over for a sneak preview of Book 4 of The Weapon Takers Saga...

  The Giants’ Spear

  Prologue

  Siavash sat on the throne where Erkindrix had once sat. His arms rested on the carved red crystal. It was his now, and he had got more than used to that idea. Golden light shone down from the dome high up in the vaulted ceiling, bathing him
in warm colours. He would have felt like a god, if he didn’t already have one living inside him.

  Diis was with him: an oppressive presence, impatient for the victory over Madria that still eluded them.

  His mind repeated the moment when that bitch, Soren’s sister, had struck the corpse of Prince Dorian with the dagger. There had been a blinding flash, a bang, and Siavash’s shadow was shattered, evaporating away into nothingness. It was lost to him forever—and lost cheaply, because he had not even succeeded in defeating the Kalinthians.

  The doors opened and the Magnian, Herin, strode in. He walked towards the throne in a self-assured way. Siavash could feel Diis focus his malevolence on the human, and Siavash could see the human’s spirit quail, though he maintained an admirable show of bravado.

  ‘I am honoured to present you with these gifts, Lord Siavash,’ he said, bending down on one knee in front of him. From a sack he pulled a decapitated head.

  ‘King Mark evaded us long enough, but he has met his end now,’ Herin said, holding the face towards Siavash so that he could see the former King of Persala’s features. Siavash had never met the man, but his informants had already confirmed that this was indeed the head of the king-in-exile.

  ‘My force also successfully recovered the Shield of Persala, as you ordered,’ said Herin.

  Dropping the head unceremoniously to the floor, he now held up the shield, the leather exterior decorated in the gaudy colours of the Persaleians.

  Siavash felt Diis stir, a mix of hatred for the object brought before him, and elation—that at last one of the weapons of Madria was in their hands.

  ‘You have served us well,’ Siavash admitted, ‘and will be rewarded. I need generals with the ability to carry out orders. You will be given your own host to command.’

  Herin lowered his head, acknowledging the scale of the reward. ‘I am honoured,’ he said, raising his eyes to look at Siavash once more. ‘What orders will this host have?’